


Standards Compliant

by Enfilade



Series: Contingency Procedures [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Awkwardness, FRAT!!!!, Fluff and Smut, Fraternization, Hand Jobs, M/M, Past DubCon, Past Unhealthy Relationship, Slash, Sticky Sex, improper utilization of the Tyrest Accord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you're going to fool around with your commanding officer, you'd better do it to the best of your ability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joining Orders

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be considered a direct sequel to “A Fighter, Not A Lover.” AFNAL was fluff. This is slash, smut, sticky-style interface and mentions of past unhealthy relationship. Don’t like? Hit your back button.
> 
> If, on the other hand, slash, smut, sticky sex and hurt/comfort are what you are here for, then by all means proceed. 
> 
> Mentions an unhealthy past relationship with dubcon and abuse of authority. Everything in the present tense is consensual. 
> 
> It’s set after the events of “Remain in Light” but before “Dark Cybertron.”
> 
> To to my former commanding officers who directed me to fill out literally hundreds of military evaluation forms on their behalf: I am now using that terminology and phrasing to make Ultra Magnus talk dirty. I am simultaneously grateful and apologetic to you.

_This_ , thought Ultra Magnus distantly, _must be what people mean when they talk about things getting hot and heavy_.

Not that Rodimus was all that heavy—his mass was entirely typical for a mech his size, and certainly within the recommended structural limitations of the Magnus Armour—but his weight was certainly more noticeable when it was applied directly to Ultra Magnus’ chest and hips. The former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord lay on his back on his berth, Rodimus on top of him. While the berth was rated to hold two mechs—Magnus had justified his request for a double berth based on the size and weight of his armoured frame—he rather doubted it was intended to hold them stacked vertically instead of lying side by side. Every once in a while Rodimus would shift and Magnus would hear the springs beneath him creak in response. Still, they seemed to be holding, possibly because Magnus was large enough to distribute the weight over a reasonable portion of the berth’s surface and _erg Rodimus is doing that thing with my shoulder stacks again_.

Ultra Magnus quite liked that thing with his shoulder stacks, so he dimmed his optics and put his concerns on pause until Rodimus’ hands returned to his collar assembly.

_Hot_ , well, there was no argument against that. The stylized flames all over Rodimus’ body looked like a warning of sorts, a notice to all that the captain of the Lost Light ran hot. Magnus couldn’t deny the strong downdrafts of heated air coming from Rodimus’ fans, or the way the warmth built up where their bodies lay against one another with precious little gap for ventilation. Magnus’ own fans weren’t operating at anywhere near peak capacity, what with Rodimus’ belly sprawled all over his left intake and Rodimus’ chest severely interfering with the efficiency of the right, particularly when he lowered his head to deliver another deep and thorough kiss.

Kissing was a new activity for Magnus, and he wasn’t entirely certain he was certified to do it to an acceptable standard as of yet. Was this the qualification test? He wasn’t sure. Rodimus had slipped out of teaching mode and into this long, extended practice session quite some time ago…how long, Magnus wasn’t entirely certain, because his chronometer had gone offline somewhere along the way. He’d probably disabled it by accident; if he had to guess when, he’d say during the neck-nipping component of the training, and he didn’t want to lose focus now trying to re-set it. 

If this was the qualification exam—and it would be just like Rodimus to start the evaluation without mentioning it—Ultra Magnus wasn’t entirely sure what to do. His tongue swept over Rodimus’ in a manner that was eminently pleasurable and surely satisfactory, but not particularly novel, given that he’d been doing it for some time now. He could play it safe, go for a rating of _meets expectations_ , or he could strive to excel. Ordinarily he’d take it that step above and beyond, but that was in situations where he knew he was more than capable. It was a far more unnerving prospect when he still felt so unsure of both his technique and the theory that informed it. Rodimus really ought to have given him some reading material and time for research before showing up in his quarters and initiating this…this… _practical component_.

And it was terribly, terribly hard to think clearly when Rodimus _wriggled_ like that.

Ultra Magnus bought himself a little space to clear his head by running his hands up Rodimus’ spinal strut, tracing the length of his captain’s spoiler, and then slipping his fingertips underneath the delicate metal structure. Here, where the wind caressed the underside of the spoiler while Rodimus was in alt mode…this was the place. One stroke, two, and Rodimus arched his back and moaned, optics dimmed in helpless bliss. Rodimus’ hands gave up their exploration of Magnus’ frame in favour of curling about Magnus’s shoulders for support as he thrust his shoulder blades up into Magnus’ grip.

Ultra Magnus was very pleased with this recent discovery, and more than a little smug that he’d figured it out without the need for explicit instructions.

Now, Magnus wasted precious time just watching the shape of Rodimus’ mouth as he smiled and then gasped. Magnus savoured the tension in the red frame, listening to Rodimus’ ragged intake of air through his mouth and the muted buzzing of his fans. The former Enforcer came back to himself as Rodimus’ fingers clutched him tightly, as if seeking support. 

Rodimus bowed his head, gritting his teeth. The change was disturbing. Magnus, wondering if he’d overdone it, let his hands slip off the sweet spoiler and onto Rodimus’ shoulders. The captain shivered and pressed his body insistently against Magnus’, his hands searching now, seeking something Magnus didn’t know how to give.

Ultra Magnus wished Rodimus would give him an order, some sense of direction, but Rodimus nudged at him blindly, then started kissing him hard. Magnus got the sense of a hunger, an inexplicable need. The former Enforcer cleared his vocalizer of static, realizing he would have to inquire, but a sudden uncomfortable cramp in his left knee caused the joint to bend almost before Magnus was aware of it, and far too late for him to stop it. It was his own fault, keeping it locked under Rodimus’ legs for so long.

Magnus’ left leg slid between and up the length of Rodimus’ legs, which parted to admit it. Magnus felt an immediate relief of pressure on the aching joint. Rodimus’ body weight shifted, and when it stopped, Magnus felt a strange moisture against the outside of his thigh, and the hot, insistent blaze of Rodimus’ pelvic armour pressed tightly against his upper leg. Magnus began to stammer an apology, but Rodimus threw back his head and groaned a single word, “yeah.”

Yes? Bewildered, Magnus froze, wondering if this new position was more comfortable for Rodimus too or whether Rodimus might instead be referring to Magnus’ hands on his chest or something else entirely.

While Magnus held still, Rodimus moved, shifting his center of balance forward, then back, rocking as if in pursuit of equilibrium. Magnus kept his leg perfectly still between Rodimus’ trembling thighs. Rodimus’ lips parted in a sound that seemed appreciative and Magnus watched, startled, as Rodimus braced his arms on Magnus’ chest and ground down harder, pressing insistently against Magnus’ leg again, again…

A shiver passed through Rodimus’ frame. Magnus stared. One more motion, and then Rodimus seized Magnus’s shoulders as his whole body shook, racked by tremors from some unseen and unknowable source.

Ultra Magnus saw his commander convulse and his confusion tipped right over the edge into fear. “Rodimus? Rodimus!” he demanded, sitting up, seizing his captain by the shoulders and shaking him, praying to see some sign of consciousness in Rodimus’ optics. 

Rodimus’ optics lit and focused on Magnus’ face, and just when Magnus felt a bit of relief to see his captain appearing coherent, the speedster’s lips split in a smile.

“I’m calling Ratchet,” Magnus snapped and activated his wrist-mounted comm link.

“Hey, don’t do that!” Rodimus reached out and snapped the comm link back into Magnus’ wrist to deactivate it. Whatever had happened, his nervous system appeared to have made a complete recovery. He regarded Magnus with an all-too-familiar expression, the “what in the Pit are you doing” look, most often used when Magnus was in the process of complying with some protocol that Rodimus considered a waste of time.

It was good to see Rodimus back to normal, but Ultra Magnus was not inclined to take unnecessary risks. “You just had a seizure,” Magnus snapped, reaching for the transmit button again.

Rodimus snorted. “What?” His lip lifted in a half-grin; his optics sparkled.

“I said…” Magnus growled as Rodimus grabbed his hand, pulling it back so he couldn’t reach the transmit button. “You were convulsing. You need to get checked out by a…”

Rodimus started to laugh.

“There is absolutely nothing funny about seizures,” Magnus lectured, but inside he was getting that all-too-familiar sinking feeling, the _you’re a laughingstock_ feeling, and guilt came right up alongside it, guilt that he’d gone running to Tyrest to knock some sense into Rodimus, and for all that had happened after.

“It wasn’t a seizure,” Rodimus said with surprising gentleness as he curled his fingers around Magnus’. He looked up into Magnus’ face, still wearing that partial smile. “It was an overload.”

“Oh,” Magnus said, relieved that there was a logical explanation for this event that didn’t involve potentially life-threatening or at the very least function-impeding health consequences for his captain and _he said what_

Magnus’ jaw dropped open.

Rodimus shifted on his lap, and the sparkle in his eye faded, replaced by a steady light. All the while, that little voice in Magnus’ head was telling him that he had just done something _very, very stupid_ , and that _laughingstock_ status had been well and truly earned, and _you can only hide inside that armour for so long, Minimus Ambus, before everyone will know the truth of exactly what you are…a loser wearing someone else’s borrowed glory_.

Rodimus put his hand on Magnus’ cheek and whispered tenderly, “You didn’t know, did you?”

Oh, Primus, there was no right answer to that question. No safe place between a lie and a confession.

“I’m sorry,” Rodimus said quietly, and Magnus had rarely seen him look so serious. “I thought…I just presumed you’d know. I should’ve asked…if it was okay to…”

“It’s okay,” Magnus hastened to assure him. “I don’t mind, I was just…” He chose his words carefully. “Surprised.”

Rodimus bit his lip and lowered his gaze. “Are you a virgin, Magnus?”

“No,” Ultra Magnus said, a little too quickly, even though it was the truth.

Rodimus gave him a sharp look, and Magnus ground his teeth in anticipation of the inevitable interrogation, but Rodimus didn’t ask. He just laid his cheek on Magnus’ shoulder and said, “I went too far again, didn’t I.”

It wasn’t a question.


	2. Dress Standards, Subsection A: Wash Station Protocol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody get out your Nightmare Fuel and fill 'er up because here comes a big helping of porn-with-plot to crank your crankshafts. Sticky smut of dubious moral virtue below!

Chapter Two: Dress Standards, Subsection A: Wash Station Protocol

Magnus folded his fingers through Rodimus’. “I think we’re all right,” he said, but his voice was shaky. He felt more than a little rattled.

_I overloaded Rodimus. My captain. Right here, on top of me. Without even opening our panels._ Ultra Magnus suspected it was going to take a long, long time for him to parse this information.

They sat there in silence save for the slow rotation of their cooling fans, long enough for Ultra Magnus’ mood to turn from anxiety to contentment and back to anxiety again. He found himself stroking Rodimus’ hip with his free hand, tracing his thigh, his knee, and…

Magnus became acutely aware of moisture smeared on his upper leg. His fingers tracked and found a similar moisture on Rodimus’ thigh, slick and shiny. Rodimus pressed his side against Magnus’ as Ultra Magnus sought the source – a severed fuel line? – and discovered the trail growing thicker and wetter the higher he got until his fingers bumped against Rodimus’ pelvic armour and the captain nestled against him, his mouth opening on a hard exhale, his fans spooling up again.

This, at least, Ultra Magnus understood, particularly given what Rodimus had told him earlier about overload. 

“There’s a mess,” he murmured softly into Rodimus’ audio.

“Uh huh.” Rodimus moved, but not towards the wash station to clean himself. Instead, he settled his back against Magnus’ chest and parted his thighs, the better to improve Magnus’ access.

“Rodimus…” Ultra Magnus felt his own fans click on for absolutely no logical reason as Rodimus pressed himself insistently against his second-in-command, that spoiler tickling Magnus’ chest. Rodimus could really be a spoiled aft sometimes. He was going to soil the berth if he didn’t clean that off. In fact, Magnus became acutely aware of the aft in question, right between his thighs, warm and…

Magnus bit down a groan of his own as he felt a stirring beneath his own armour. He wasn’t sure how to tell Rodimus what he was feeling now, or even if he should. This wasn’t something he talked about in public—it wasn’t seemly, a lesson which most of the _Lost Light_ had missed given how freely they discussed interface-related subjects, usually in the bar of all places—but just because he didn’t discuss it in polite company didn’t mean he didn’t experience it. 

This was absolutely the worst time to experience it, with Rodimus right here, apparently disinclined to leave. Magnus’ fingers were so sticky with Rodimus’ lubricant…what was he supposed to do about that? Wiping it off on Rodimus seemed rude, on himself would just spread the mess around, and on his berth would defeat the purpose of attempting to remove his utterly shameless captain. If he were alone, he’d just go to the wash station, clean up, and take care of…

…Oh.

Oh, that really was a solution to all the problems, wasn’t it?

Ultra Magnus wrapped his arms around Rodimus and stood up, lifting the captain up into his arms, one arm tucked against Rodimus’ back, the other supporting the speedster’s thighs. “Hey,” Rodimus yelped, beginning to squirm. Magnus stepped forward, and Rodimus wrapped his arm over the second-in-command’s shoulders, the better to support himself. Rodimus tipped back his head and laughed, “Where are we going?”  


“To clean up,” Magnus said grimly. One way or another, Rodimus was going to get presentable before Magnus let him out of his quarters.

“Aw, you kicking me out?”

What Ultra Magnus was kicking happened to be the door to his private wash station. It was a perk of command quarters that he hadn’t argued with, though he’d taken care not to let the others know just how much he enjoyed a private bath. The wash station consisted of a standard wall mounted shower with a not-so-standard modification: a sturdy bench and a solvent head with adjustable height, currently at the lower end of its range. It was angled so that a stream of warm cleaning fluids would strike mid-chest of a mech sitting on the bench.

“I’m not letting you out like that,” Ultra Magnus muttered. “You look a disgrace.” He shook his head. “Walking down the corridors of the _Lost Light_ with lubricants running down your thighs.”

“Er…yeah, I guess I am a bit of a sight,” Rodimus admitted. “You could’ve just given me a cloth.”

“Not good enough.” Though really, it should have been – it would have made Rodimus presentable by Ratchet’s standards, surely, and given that Red Alert had amassed a significant amount of footage of Rodimus in the corridors minus critical bits of his armour, or engaged in various acts of debauchery with a not-insignificant portion of the _Lost Light_ ’s crew roster, Rodimus’ standards for acceptable appearance in public were distressingly low. 

Rodimus took his eyes off Magnus to look around for the first time. “Hey, was it you who did the remodeling in here?” He turned to his second with a cheeky grin. “Are these mods regulation?”

“They in no way impede safe and efficient operation of the wash station, the ship’s systems or the _Lost Light_ as a whole.”

Which was not the same as _regulation_ , much to Magnus’ private shame, but given Rodimus’ desk-carving and flame-inscribing and the alleged presence of a mirror over the berth in the captain’s stateroom, one could argue under Chapter 7 of the Tyrest Accord (Operation of Intergalactic Vessels), Section 24 (Ship’s Law), subsection g) (Precident), that by his actions Rodimus had given implied and tacit permission for other officers to modify their quarters in non-intrusive ways.

“Just messin’ with you, Mags,” Rodimus said, and licked Magnus’ left smokestack for emphasis. “We gonna get up to something?”

Magnus was so startled he almost dropped his armful of commanding officer. A part of him was disappointed that he wouldn’t get to defend his actions via a vigorous debate, but on the other hand, he had a smoking hot speedster revving hard against his chest and unless he was mistaken, the lubricant flow on Rodimus’ legs was…not decreasing.

Ultra Magnus tightened his grip on Rodimus and murmured in the other mech’s audio, “That’s your decision, Captain. You can order me to leave and clean yourself up, or you can order me to stay and assist you.”

Rodimus dimmed his optics as his fans accelerated to a fever pitch. “That kind of order’s got to violate the Tyrest Accord somewhere.” His smug smile indicated he was trying to pull Magnus’ ripcord, and while usually Magnus would just mutter something awkward and sidle away, this time Magnus felt it was time to give Rodimus a taste of his own medicine.

“Not if I consent to it in advance,” Magnus purred.

Rodimus’ jaw dropped. 

“If you behave, I won’t ask you to fill out permission forms in triplicate in advance.”

“You…you’re teasing me.” _Uncertainty_ was a novel look for Rodimus. Magnus had to admit he was wholly entertained.

“I recommend you hold this position,” Magnus said, depositing Rodimus on the bench before moving to adjust the spray head. A stream hitting Magnus in mid-chest would hit Rodimus in the face, and there was nothing nice about that. Magnus was grateful he was able to adjust it low enough for what he had in mind. As he worked, he saw Rodimus start to fidget—though any recruit in basic training knew that _hold this position_ meant not to move. On the other hand, he really didn’t have the authority to be ordering Rodimus around, much as he sometimes wished it was otherwise, and Rodimus was wholly justified in ignoring a recommendation if he so chose. Magnus tried saying something to keep Rodimus’ attention. Witty banter: wouldn’t Rung be proud of him? “A verbal contract is sufficiently binding.”

Rodimus’ engines roared.

Magnus felt smug, though the corner of his lip ached, as though it had been forced into some unnatural position. He sauntered back towards the impatient red speedster on his bench. “If you’re concerned, though, we could always complete forms after the fact, though I would strongly suggest classifying them at Restricted or above, to avoid contributing to the rumour mill aboard this…”

“For Primus’ sake!” Rodimus squirmed in frustration. “Stop being a tease and authorize me to ask it already!”

The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord had never previously been accused of being a tease. Retirement came with all manner of unforeseen changes that left Ultra Magnus feeling giddy, almost drunken. “Authorization granted. Permission to proceed with fraternization-related request.” He circled the bench, coming up behind Rodimus.

“Help me!” Rodimus demanded.

“Help you what?” Magnus rumbled as he thumbed the controls to activate the cleanser stream. It began striking the bench to Rodimus’ left. “Oh, tell me if this is a pleasant temperature.” 

Rodimus stuck his hand into the spray. “Yeah, that’s fine…now get over here and help me…I don’t know, rinse me off or whatever.”

“I don’t think so,” Magnus said sternly, shaking his head. If he was going to be accused of being a tease, he’d damn well earn the designation.

Rodimus outright whimpered.

“You see,” Magnus whispered in his captain’s audio, as he ran his hand over Rodimus’ hip, “if I just rinse you off, the way you’re leaking, you’ll be filthy again before you make it to the hallway. Solving a problem means…” His fingers traced over Rodimus’ panel. “…stopping it at the source.” 

Rodimus’ breath rasped in and out of his vents. He leaned back, spreading his thighs for easier access. His biolights pulsed erratically as he became very, very still, attention entirely fixated on Magnus’ fingers. It was a good look for him, and Ultra Magnus wished he’d be this focused on the bridge, but he supposed everyone started somewhere. 

Magnus leaned forward so Rodimus could get a good look at his face when he asked, “Permission to stop it at the source, Captain?”

Rodimus’ panel snapped open.

Which, of course, was not explicit permission, so Ultra Magnus stroked Rodimus’ inner thighs while his captain made all manner of interesting and frustrated noises.

“Mrrgh, yes, permission granted, yes!” Rodimus said in a burst, the words sounding wrung out of his vocalizer.

“Excellent,” Magnus purred. “Procedure is as follows: move forward and into the spray, so I can take position behind you, then lean back.”

It was almost comical, how quickly Rodimus scooted forward on the bench, but Magnus wasn’t much of a giggler. Keeping his balance as he stepped over the bench with his right leg, lowered himself, and swung his left over on the other side of Rodimus took some of his concentration; asking himself what in the Pit he thought he was doing occupied the rest. Surely this went above and beyond a simple attempt to become more personable.

…But Ultra Magnus had made a career out of going above and beyond.

Magnus sat on the bench and once again found Rodimus leaning back against him, spoiler against Magnus’ chest, head resting on Magnus’ shoulder. A cascade of cleanser spattered around the flames on Rodimus’ chest, trickling down his body and sluicing between his legs, rinsing away the telltale signs of his earlier overload. The outside of Rodimus’ legs rested against the inside of Magnus’ thighs; their gentle contact became a firm, insistent pressure when Magnus’ hand dipped between Rodimus’ legs and the commander of the _Lost Light_ did his best to spread as wide as he could in response to Magnus’ touch.

So responsive and Magnus hadn’t really done anything yet. One brush of a finger, another, and then Magnus gently took Rodimus’ spike in hand.

Rodimus’ spike was, unsurprisingly, as flashy as the rest of him. Not content with the perfectly nice spike he’d been forged with, Rodimus had decorated it in a pattern of flames and modified it with a truly extravagant series of ridges and whorls. Ultra Magnus was not an expert in examining other mech’s spikes; nevertheless, he felt fairly certain that Rodimus’ biolights in that region were too bright to be entirely natural. The entire effect was admittedly attractive, but in a way that came right up to the brink of excess.

It was almost embarrassing, or at least, it would be if Magnus could see it. Rodimus’ spike was…again, Magnus was no expert, but he’d guess above average for a mech Rodimus’ size. Which still meant that a significant portion disappeared into Magnus’ palm when he wrapped his fingers around it …but at least he didn’t have to look at those shamefully decadent flames. The texturing was a little harder to ignore, given the way he was holding it.

Rodimus threw his head back and groaned, “You need…training...Mags?”

Ultra Magnus decided to ignore the nickname at a time like this. “No, I’m fairly confident in my qualifications for this manoeuvre,” he whispered, as he began to stroke Rodimus’ spike, gently at first, slowly applying pressure in different areas with each subsequent stroke.

This, at least, was a procedure Ultra Magnus practiced regularly. Just because he didn’t talk about getting a charge in public didn’t mean he never got one; it just meant that he took care of it discreetly, as was the disciplined thing to do. Perhaps he was a little too private about it—rumours had gotten around that he was one of those mechs who didn’t experience a charge at all—but the rumours had their uses. As the stories spread, most mechs stopped trying to get in his berth.

That was a relief, because Magnus had never known what to say when he got hit on. Accepting was always inappropriate – the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord should not be a figure of romance. He’d just settled for glaring until whoever was propositioning him dropped his gaze and slunk away. There’d been a few who’d tried their luck, thinking they’d be the exception to the rule, and Magnus had sent them cringing back to their berths alone with the sheer weight of the disapproval in his frown.

But he’d still had pesky charges to deal with, and so he’d dealt with them here, in the secrecy of his own wash station, with warm cleanser sluicing down on him to wash away the messy fluids. He’d practiced until he’d learned both how to hit overload as quickly and efficiently as possible, and also how to draw out the session until he could feel, if not _relaxed—_ no need to be _gratuitous_ —at least a certain sense of satisfaction in the thorough resolution of a task. In this situation he did not need Rodimus’ coaching. Ultra Magnus was comforted to know that in this, at least, he had the requisite skill.

He knew exactly how to apply them, too. Rodimus, for all his usual enthusiasm for fast, loud and flashy, wasn’t going to get _fast_ here. Oh, no, the last thing Ultra Magnus wanted was Rodimus hitting a quick overload and just as quickly pestering Magnus for more...or running through the corridors yelling _who's up for a frag?_ Magnus had already been through that nonsense in his berth, and that was what had landed them here in the wash station. If Magnus was going to get under his commanding officer’s plating, he was going to make sure the job got done _properly_. There was no way Rodimus was going to still be charged up and leaking by the time he left Magnus’ quarters.

Not by the time Ultra Magnus was done with him.


	3. Recce and Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the slightest bit safe for work. Highly combustible. May cause you to question your sexuality (unless you already have a thing for robots, in which case, please proceed).
> 
> Warnings: everyone's having a great time in the present, but Ultra Magnus had some bad past experiences which are cropping up in his thoughts as the story proceeds.

Rodimus’ head lolled back on Magnus’ shoulder as the former Enforcer explored his commander’s spike, seeking the ideal position from which to perform his new and unexpected duty. It was an obligation of questionable virtue but nevertheless one which Ultra Magnus was surprisingly satisfied at taking on. 

After all, what were the alternatives? A charged-up Rodimus bolting through the halls of the _Lost Light_? Spike lubricants trickling out from under his armour, streaking his legs and spattering on the corridors? It would only be a matter of time before someone from the crew _volunteered_ to assist with the problem. That was _not_ permissible, not on Ultra Magnus’ watch. Not when Magnus was here to…

_Would you be doing this, if it were Prowl in command of this ship?_

Magnus shoved that thought aside, because _of course_ propriety was his primary motivation and Prowl wouldn’t make a habit of making out in the corridors with a different mech each week anyway. 

Magnus’ engine growled, low and deep. His other hand splayed possessively over Rodimus’ chest, right under the warm spray of the cleanser. The rinse trickled down over both their platings, comfortingly clean, tidy and proper, in strict contrast to what seemed to Ultra Magnus to be the sullying, disorderly activity they were engaged in. 

When Magnus came to his wash station alone, he convinced himself that the cleaning action of the rinse would make up for the things he did to himself here, and that he would leave as clean as he had been when he arrived. Still, he could never look at himself too much when he was in this room. He couldn’t quite bring himself to associate _Ultra Magnus_ with the acts he indulged in here.

Rodimus clearly had no such qualms. Rodimus sat between Magnus’ spread legs, watching with clear fascination at the sight of Magnus handling his spike. He panted loudly, he was so excited at the view, and his fans blasted hot air through the rain of cleaning fluid. Rodimus sat between Magnus’ thighs, his legs apart, but he could only open them so far before they pressed against Magnus’. They were pressing quite insistently now as Rodimus tried in vain to intensify the sensation of having his spike handled.

“Here,” Magnus murmured in his commander’s audio, and released Rodimus’ chest long enough to left his commander’s left knee in his left hand. Magnus hooked Rodimus’ left leg overtop of his. The _Lost Light_ ’s captain didn’t need any further encouragement to do the same on the right side. With both his legs slung over Magnus’, his body tilted backwards, reclining him completely against Magnus’ chest. Rodimus groaned in appreciation and relief, a most _unseemly_ sound, and a most unseemly sight to match; his legs spread as wide as they would go, wholly exposing the flame-decorated spike in Magnus’ grip.

“Primus, this is so hot,” Rodimus whispered, his voice shaky. His frame trembled in anticipation.

It was _indecent_ , was what it was, but Magnus’ fans were roaring at a pretty good clip too, and anyway Ultra Magnus knew that a mech couldn’t make desire disappear through will alone. Sometimes he had to retreat to this wash station and bleed off charge, and if he did it for himself, he could do it for Rodimus.

So he did.

“Exercise, commence,” he murmured as his hand began to move on Rodimus’ spike.

It was strange at first, having no sensation on his own spike to provide him with feedback on his performance, but Rodimus was a responsive partner. His mouth hung open and all kinds of noises came out—needy little cries when he wanted more, gasps when Magnus shocked him with something new or intense, sighs and hard vents when it felt good, purrs when he savoured the touch. Magnus still had to guess, a little, what Rodimus might want, but it was reasonable to assume that what felt good when he did it to himself would probably be worth trying on Rodimus. 

Rodimus was wriggly, though. Magnus had to clamp his free arm down hard over Rodimus’ chest to hold him still. At first he was concerned that Rodimus would find the pressure uncomfortable; but Rodimus simply arched against Magnus’ arm and shouted a series of disjointed affirmatives.

It wasn’t really all that unpleasant a job, now that he had found an effective rhythm. He repeated the stroke over and over while his brain took the opportunity to evaluate the experience. Rodimus’ aft pressed against Magnus’ armour in a series of pulsing beats that gave him a warm, almost tingly sensation behind his panel—a sort of heightened awareness. The air from Rodimus’ fans mixed with the steam of the cleanser to create a pleasant, cleansing warmth, and Rodimus’ little inhalations filled Ultra Magnus with a satisfying urge to protect and defend. There was also, he admitted to himself, a darker notion in his spark that truly enjoyed having his commander wrapped up in his control, waiting on his every motion, _paying attention to him for a change_. All of him relished the chance to show off his skills, to take this unexpected situation and use it as one more opportunity to excel.

Magnus knew exactly how and when to loosen his grip, to let a little of the cleanser get between his hand and Rodimus’ spike to permit the friction that strengthened sensation while still keeping his grip slick enough to be comfortable. The small breaks in contact created a gap which served to sharpen sensation when touch resumed, and Rodimus responded with a steady stream of audial feedback, allowing Magnus to adjust accordingly.

“Oh,” Rodimus said, snatching a breath, “you’re…you’re good at this.” 

Magnus had reached a level of skill that comfortably met his own needs, and he was secure in his competency, but it did give him a sort of warm feeling to know that Rodimus—a much more experienced judge—rated his proficiency as “good,” not just “adequate.” 

“I’ll expect a full evaluation later,” Magnus purred.

“You…” Rodimus gasped when Magnus hit a certain sweet spot, and Magnus thumbed it just to be sure he had the exact area mapped. He pinpointed it precisely, and so it took a while for Rodimus to be able to speak. “Oh, Primus, if you’re serious I’ll fill out all the forms you want, if that gets you off, just…just please don’t stop!”

“Rodimus, are you seriously insinuating I would leave a task only _partially completed_?”

“N-no!” Rodimus writhed in his subcommander’s grip as though fearing the sensations he was enjoying would be taken away from him. “No, just…just please.”

Teasing Rodimus was surprisingly fun, but Ultra Magnus had no desire to be cruel. The spectre of a ruthless authority haunted the back of his mind: _Give. Submit. It is your duty. All your desires and dreams, all your fears and feelings, are subordinate to your cause and to Me. You will sacrifice to me for the Cause, body and soul, and in exchange I will give you the authority to bring order to this universe….My order…for I am the Law, and you will be My Instrument…_

No matter what fantasy Ultra Magnus entertained here in the wash station, these thoughts—those words—were always what he came back to in the end. Emotions twined in his mind: attraction and repulsion, pleasure and pain, desire and disgust, curiosity and fear. He’d never been able to separate his overloads from his memories of those few encounters when he’d finally understood the price of the armour he wore. 

To bid goodbye to Minimus Ambus—that was nothing. Minimus was nothing. Minimus had usiness partners, but no friends; a job, but not a respectable career; a function, but not a valuable contribution to society. As for his family, well, he’d lived his life in Dominus Ambus’ shadow. It was not so far to go from shadow to completely swallowed by darkness.

No, the true cost had all been internal. To shed Minimus Ambus, he’d had to sacrifice his autonomy to Chief Justice Tyrest’s will. And that sacrifice had been _tested_ …

Ultra Magnus winced, as he always did when overload approached, repulsed by his own weakness, driven on by the need coursing through his systems, disgusted by his own want, betrayed by his frame’s insistence on this degrading act that pleasured his body and fouled his mind. This time, though, something was different. This time the pleasure he chased was not his own and it was Rodimus in his arms. 

Rodimus moaned, spread out like a sacrifice, his thighs trembling, his head thrashing back and forth, his spinal strut arching into a bow. Everything in him was wholly centered on what Magnus was doing. His hips had started pumping in counterpoint to Magnus’ strokes, and Magnus deliberately frustrated him, making sure he could never get any of the same kind of pressure for too long. Rodimus was not getting off this easily.

Belatedly, it crossed Ultra Magnus’ mind that there could be a double entendre in that thought.

Rodimus’ optics flickered and a tremor shook him, as though he hovered on the very edge of an overload. “Magnus…Ultra Magnus… _please_.” His lips trembled and his thighs quivered. His gaze pleaded. “ _Please_.”

Magnus could keep himself on the edge for over an hour, and often did. He would grit his teeth, taking pleasure so far that it became pain, punishing himself for his needs, hurting as he deserved to hurt for all his failings. Rodimus ought to learn that command was a responsibility, not a reward, and yet as Magnus looked down at his captain—that beautiful frame spread out across his own—Ultra Magnus realized with a bolt of shock that he did not want to do that to Rodimus.

 _The Law has no mercy_. _It is injustice for the Law to relent. True morality is found in the deliverance of punishment due._ Tyrest’s voice echoed in Ultra Magnus’ head. With a sudden flare of vehemence, Magnus rebelled.

This time he did not move away when Rodimus arched into his touch. This time when his Captain pleaded for more, Magnus gave it. This time…this time…

Rodimus arched in his arms, and Magnus intensified the movements that had brought his captain to this point. Rodimus shook uncontrollably, trembling, and Magnus tried not to think about convulsions or how terrifying it was to abandon control. He reminded himself that overloads felt good, and it didn’t matter what they looked like. He dimmed his optics, letting Rodimus’ movements guide his hands. When Rodimus finally stiffened and then went limp, he slowed his strokes, gentling his touch, supporting his captain as the speedster’s red frame collapsed against his.

Magnus finally dared to open his optics. Rodimus looked up at him, his optics dazed, for precisely zero point eight seconds before his lips curved into the biggest slag-sucking grin Ultra Magnus had ever seen.

“Good Primus,” Rodimus said, looking extremely self-satisfied. “If you let the crew know you could do _that_ , you’d have to beat them off of you with a stick.”

“You’re not going to let them know, are you?” Magnus had not thought about this possibility before, but it was entirely possible that Rodimus might brag. “Please don’t make me need to requisition a big stick.”

“And _share_? Scrap that.” Rodimus practically purred. “The fact that you are smoking hot in the berth is classified to the highest level.” 

This wasn’t a berth, but Ultra Magnus let the technicality slide. Feeling quite proud of himself, Magnus patted Rodimus’ inner thigh…and froze. His fingers were coated all over in thick, sticky lubricant.

 _More_ mess.

Magnus leaned over Rodimus’ shoulder for a better look, flabbergasted at how Rodimus’ spike had managed any fluid to spare, and was treated to the sight of Rodimus’ valve slowly oozing lube down the commanding officer’s thighs and into a pool on Magnus’ bench. Even the spray of the cleanser couldn’t keep up with the puddle Rodimus was making.

Ultra Magnus didn’t usually indulge in swear words, but this seemed like the kind of occasion which really called for one. “Scrap me,” he whispered, because he _did_ feel as though he were only moments away from wrecking; what was he supposed to do with a chronically leaky valve?

Ultra Magnus did not have the slightest idea.


	4. Mission Capable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not at TFCon Chicago. This is for everyone else who's sad about not going.

Chapter Four: Mission Capable

Rodimus grabbed Magnus’ hand by the wrist and hauled it into his lap with an urgency that shocked the former Enforcer. “Touch me,” he gasped, his voice teetering on the edge between a demand and a plea. The solvent spray continued to rinse them both, but Magnus couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that he and his captain were doing something dirty, something no cleanser could ever quite clean away.

Magnus felt his mouth go dry as he extended his index finger and gingerly poked it towards the vicinity of Rodimus’ valve. He brushed something soft and plush and Rodimus groaned in appreciation.

It was gooey and wet and…Urg. Magnus had no idea what to do with a valve. They were tight and tender, easily bruised, _vulnerable_ … Magnus didn’t want to hurt Rodimus, so he carefully traced the outer rim of Rodimus’ valve and hoped that would be good enough to satisfy whatever Rodimus wanted.

Then—because he already suspected that would _not_ be good enough to satisfy whatever Rodimus wanted—he tried to remember everything he’d ever heard about using a valve. 

He cursed himself for not paying better attention to this topic. He’d glossed over the chatter of mechs in the bar, dismissing the information as unnecessary, even frivolous. This situation would serve him right. Next time he would pay attention to _everything_ and analyze it thoroughly. He would take in more. Process more. Learn more. He would do it until it hurt and then he would keep on doing _more_. He was the Duly Appointed…he was still Ultra Magnus and he would _not_ be found wanting again.

In the meantime, Rodimus seemed to like this circling business, or at least that’s what Magnus interpreted all his mewling and panting to mean. Magnus kept it up while he reviewed the pathetically small quantity of data in his memory banks.

Valves were…well, if the medics had not been drunk and exaggerating when discussing this matter, valves were special. The act of receiving another mechanism’s downloaded data was a daring and intimate thing. First Aid and Ratchet had been known to engage in epic debates as to whether the valve was an act of precision engineering on behalf of Primus Himself or a finely honed evolutionary mechanism developed because it was advantageous for mechanisms sharing a close partnership to be able to download memories and information directly from one to another. 

And valves were hideously sensitive. First Aid had said that was because valve and cord download was a gift from Epistemus, and the tenderness of a valve was a reminder of the sacredness of the act. Ratchet said that the valve was sensitive because a rough partner could damage components, so the tenderness developed as an early warning sign of potentially dangerous partners, and the sensor-packed lining would ache in response to signs of rust, disease, or certain viruses. According to Ratchet, the fragility of the valve lining was an incentive for the receiving partner to defend himself against sick, brutish, or other undesirable mates, lest he catch disease or suffer injury by prolonged association with them, or acquire their traits via the download.

 _Receive the Law_.

Ultra Magnus shook his head. He was _not_ going to try to give Rodimus some respect for order and regulations by fragging them into him.

_What if Rodimus wanted him to?_

Magnus shelved _that_ thought away. What Rodimus wanted, from his current state of writhing, was valve play, and Magnus couldn’t keep stalling forever. 

“Primus, Magnus, _please_ ,” his captain begged.

Magnus leaned forward. Rodimus obligingly spread his legs and leaned back, striking a pose which Magnus guessed was intended to be enticing and looking up at Magnus with an expression somewhere between _inviting_ and _desperate_. Magnus’ gaze, however, was firmly locked in the area behind Rodimus’ spike. Where…ah, there it was.

Magnus slid his finger over Rodimus’ external node, positioned just at the lip of his valve. The commander stiffened, arching into the touch. “Magnus _yesss_...” came his voice in a hiss.

Ultra Magnus ignored the distraction. He didn’t do this to himself _often_ , but he _had_ given it a few tries. Just testing out the armour’s capabilities. Nothing unusual about that, right? Nothing _wrong_.

He hoped he remembered how it was done—back and forth, up and down, or circles? He couldn’t remember which he’d ended up liking best. All he remembered was that he made himself gooey long before he hit overload, and then he had to stop, wash, and finish up with his spike. Before long he’d just gone straight for the spike. It was more efficient that way.  
He stuck with circles. There was no sense in deviating from a pattern that was effective. Rodimus’ mouth opened and closed without sound. Magnus suspected he’d be hearing about it if this wasn’t satisfactory, so he contented himself with the conclusion that he was meeting expectations.

He tried not to think about his finger. About how slick and sticky it had become from all those fluids it had picked up on its orbits around the rim of Rodimus’ valve. If he thought about it, he’d almost certainly get disgusted and…

Primus, he couldn’t _do this_. He stuck his hands into the cleanser’s spray, scrubbing furiously. 

Rodimus shrieked, wriggled ineffectively, whimpered in his lap. “Magnus, _why..._ please come back, _please_ , I’ll do whatever you want, just _please_ …”

Magnus slid his now-mostly-clean hand back between Rodimus’ thighs and his captain settled again. The second-in-command resisted the urge to scrub Rodimus’ damned drippy valve until it was lubricant-free. 

_Filthy_.

So, back to circles on the node. Rodimus purred and settled in his arms, pumping his hips in a regular rhythm. Magnus sighed. 

The kid couldn’t even give commands properly. Pleading and begging. That’s not how Tyrest would have done it. If Tyrest had ever had any kind of interest in valve play, Tyrest would definitely have said something to the effect of “Your finger, my valve, at once.” Rodimus might be the commander, but unlike Tyrest, he didn’t spend all his time _commanding_.

A fragment of memory played in Magnus’ head. Rung. Data that Magnus had taken in, parsed, filed as useless…but not yet deleted. 

Rung had said: _for some leaders, command comes as naturally as ventilation; for others, command is a burden, and in their private hours they seek to lay that burden down, even going so far as to place it ever-so-temporarily on another._

Was _that_ what Rodimus was doing now?

“Primus, this is _so good_ ,” Rodimus whimpered, distracting Magnus from the germ of an idea flitting like a nitromoth through his mind. Funny how Rodimus was so very skilful at completely derailing Magnus’ train of thought. “Press…press harder.”

Magnus did as ordered, increasing the pressure his finger put on Rodimus’ slippery little node. The commander’s hips bucked and Magnus’ finger slid down the node, threateningly close to the lip of the valve. Magnus quickly withdrew, repositioning his finger and resuming tight, firm little circles, but Rodimus thrust again, hard, and Magnus slipped again. This time he swore he felt the hungry pull of Rodimus’ valve around his fingertip before he jerked his hand away.

This was difficult, and Rodimus wasn’t making it any easier. Magnus stroked his commander’s node much more lightly, but Rodimus’ hips pumped insistently. 

“ _Rodimus_ ,” Magnus said, his voice harsh. “If you keep that up, my finger will go right in.”

“Yeah,” Rodimus purred, thrusting again. Magnus barely yanked his hand clear in time.

Rodimus’ optics brightened in a question even as a groan of denial escaped his lips. He bit down on his teeth.

“Do you want that to happen?” Magnus demanded, frustrated and confused. He flicked Rodimus’ node. “Do you actually want my finger inside you?”

“What _I want_ is your big spike inside me,” Rodimus panted, “but I’ll take what I can get.” His hips moved again. 

Ultra Magnus sat frozen in shock. He didn’t think to pull away, and Rodimus’ motion caused the tip of the Enforcer’s finger to slip right inside the rim of Rodimus’ valve. Magnus felt the valve tighten on him, pulling him in. The red speedster whimpered in appreciation.

Ultra Magnus barely even recognized that Rodimus was doing his level best to frag his hand. Rodimus’ confession had a way of…gripping the mind.

 _I want your big spike inside me_.

Ultra Magnus had no idea what it would feel like, to sink his spike into this wet and hungry heat, but his spike seemed to have taken on a mind of its own. It surged against the interior of his panel, nudging against the cool metal in a pulsing rhythm that seemed coincidentally timed with the beating of Rodimus’ hips. As though every time Rodimus’ aft pressed against Magnus’ panel, the subcommander’s spike pushed forward to meet it. As if left to its own devices, it would frag Rodimus right here and right now.

Meanwhile, Magnus’ finger was filing a report which indicated that being inside a valve was surprisingly agreeable. Rodimus felt warm and tight in there, and his valve lining rippled in an intriguing fashion against the firmness of Magnus’ finger. It didn’t feel as though his digit was surrounded by something disgusting at all. It felt right and natural, like a piston inside a cylinder, smoothly oiled and stroking in precise sequence. 

Magnus dared to press a little more firmly, and his finger slid to the second knuckle like a telescoping hydraulic, all parts moving together as they ought to. Rodimus groaned in delight, his cry distorted by static. The valve fluttered appealingly.

Experimentally, Magnus withdrew. Rodimus’ hips moved to recapture the elusive finger. Magnus pushed in again—piston in cylinder—and Rodimus’ forward motion caused Magnus’ finger to fully sheathe inside his commander’s valve.

Ultra Magnus did not remember opening his mouth, though he heard his own gasp. His finger felt good in there, but his spike tingled with a hunger that was almost pain. He tried to imagine his spike buried between those trembling calipers and gasped again at the intensity of the image.

Primus help him, he wanted to know if reality could equal that fantasy.

“Rodimus,” Ultra Magnus hissed, his voice staticky. “Did you mean that?”

“Mrgh?” Rodimus looked at him from pleasure-glazed eyes. His valve milked Magnus’ finger.

“What you said about…” His face plates heated. “My spike.”

“Frag, yeah.” Rodimus bit his lip. “Don’t tease me, Mags. Not about this.”

Ultra Magnus felt his mouth dry as chalk. “All right.” 

Rodimus smiled, gently rocking his hips against Magnus’ finger. Ultra Magnus thought he felt some sort of raised node inside Rodimus’ valve. “Any way you want.”

Oh, if only Ultra Magnus had any idea what that might be. “You’ll, er, you’ll have to instruct me again.”

Rodimus’ head lolled against his second-in-command’s shoulder. “Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so.” Magnus felt a sudden spike of panic, a fear that Rodimus might change his mind. “I don’t know what to do.”

Rodimus’ hand tightened on Magnus’ lower arm. “Primus, Magnus, you wouldn’t have to do anything. Just lie back on your berth and watch me…let me…frag, you don’t even have to watch if you don’t want to, I mean, whatever gets you off, but I’d do all the work, oh, Magnus, Magnus _please_ ….”

Rung, Magnus remembered distantly, had advised him to be more open-minded. To consider new experiences. To explore, stretch out of his comfort zone, _play_.

That last one was asking a little much, in Magnus’ opinion, but he probably would never get a better opportunity to find out what it felt like to have his spike in a valve. At least he’d know if he liked it or not.

 _At least Rodimus wouldn’t be running up and down the ship asking who’s up for a frag_ , said an uncharitable voice in his brain with surprising vehemence.

 _Receive the Law_ , echoed another.

“Magnus, _please_.” Rodimus drowned out all the other voices in Magnus’ head.

“All right.” The words seemed to come from somewhere far away, as though it were someone not himself agreeing.

Reluctantly, Magnus pulled his finger out of his captain’s valve. Rodimus gritted his teeth, whimpering, as Magnus cleaned his hand in the spray and then deactivated the showerhead.

“Towel off.” Ultra Magnus was surprised to hear a quaver in his own voice. “I won’t have you dripping in my berth.”

“Primus, Magnus.” Rodimus climbed out of Ultra Magnus’ lap and stood, trembling on his feet. “You might be disappointed.” He grabbed for a chamois and toweled himself off with quick tremulous strokes. 

Ultra Magnus quirked an optic ridge as he stood up and dried himself. Oh. Another double entendre. Magnus felt his face plates heating.

Rodimus cursed under his breath as he swatted himself ineffectually with the towel. “How good of a job do I have to do?” he demanded.

Ultra Magnus sighed. If Rodimus would just use proper methods, he could get the task accomplished efficiently and with acceptable speed. His useless towel-flicking would stop the dripping, but leave him damp. It would take longer to do the job properly, but Ultra Magnus knew by now that Rodimus was ready to leave the job half-finished and call it good enough…

Oh, no. Not in _his_ berth.

Magnus, now dry, grabbed the towel from Rodimus’ hand. The captain looked back over his shoulder with an expression of surprise. 

Ultra Magnus took both towels together, grabbed Rodimus by the shoulder, and began rubbing him down with firm, effective strokes.

He expected Rodimus to complain. To demand that he could do this himself. Perhaps even to rebuke Magnus for being pushy. He did _not_ expect Rodimus to throw back his head and moan, leaning back into the strokes, whimpering something under his breath about Magnus being so hot.

A few moments later, Rodimus was mostly dry except for his valve, which was once again weeping freely.

There was nothing to be done about that except…

Ultra Magnus leaned forward and whispered in Rodimus’ audio.

“I’m ready to take instruction now.” Magnus paused. Smiled. “Captain.”


	5. Rules of Engagement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very happy birthday to genericfangirl :) Enjoy!

Chapter 5: Rules of Engagement

“Go to the berth, then,” Rodimus purred, “and make yourself comfortable.” 

There. It seemed Rodimus could be properly commanding when given the right incentive. Obeying his superior’s orders was the most natural thing in the world, and Ultra Magnus felt safe and content as he walked to his berth and took a seat on the side. The warm feeling he got from carrying out his duty made up for the slight tremor in his tanks when he thought about what his duty was going to entail in the very, very near future.

No experience, no practical training, not even a course in theoretical concepts. His hands trembled in his lap. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself that this _was_ the training. Hands-on instruction. Learn as you go.

“Go on,” Rodimus urged. “Get comfy.”

Magnus’ optics flickered. He thought he’d done that. Apparently Rodimus wasn’t satisfied with his sitting posture. Rodimus probably wanted him to sprawl all over the berth, limbs splayed like some indecent…

Well. He was here to get indecent, wasn’t he? That was the _point_.

In pursuit of the objective, Magnus turned, bracing himself on his forearms and pulling his legs onto the berth. He looked at Rodimus for approval as he lay down, head on his regulation-firmness, size-compliant pillow.

“You don’t have to be so stiff,” Rodimus said.

Ultra Magnus looked down at himself. He lay ramrod straight on the berth, hands at his sides, like a mech standing at attention, only rotated ninety degrees to the horizontal. Even he had to admit that this was a formal posture.

Okay. Relax. He could do that. He bent his elbows, eased his arms away from his body, and got up the nerve to kick his legs about an arm’s length apart. 

…Frag. This was basically the stand-easy parade rest posture, only lying down.

Well, too bad. It _was_ more relaxed and it was about all that could reasonably be expected of him. He was already starting to feel an unpleasant creeping sensation from looking this casual in front of his captain. He couldn’t take any more.

Rodimus jumped onto the bunk, landing with a bounce between Magnus’ legs. “Hey, open up,” he complained, shoving Magnus’ thighs apart and settling himself in between them on all fours.

_Highly inappropriate_ flashed through Magnus’ mind, but for some reason he felt comfortable obeying. He suspected it had something to do with Rodimus shoving him around like that, taking control and being precise about what he wanted. This might be all right after all.

Rodimus rose up onto his knees, towering over Magnus’ prone form and placing a possessive hand on his second in command’s pelvic span.

Oh, Rodimus did have a commander in him, and the look worked for him very, very well… Magnus felt his mouth go dry. How long had he wanted this?

“Open up,” Rodimus said, with a tap on Magnus’ spike panel and a distinctly predatory smile.

“Er,” Ultra Magnus stammered, because until this moment he hadn’t considered that Rodimus was actually going to see his spike.

_Well, what did you think would happen?_

Somehow Magnus had been unable to shake the idea of interface involving a mech on top giving and a mech on the bottom receiving. Somehow he’d taken it for granted that Rodimus would tell him when it was time for them to switch positions, preferably before any panels could get popped. Despite the fact that he knew interface could be accomplished in a variety of positions, and despite the fact that Rodimus had alluded to the sort of… _formation_ in which the recipient rode his partner, Ultra Magnus simply could not conceive interface having anything to do with _him_ in any combination other than that with which he was familiar. 

His emotion now was a combination of relief—he hadn’t liked being fragged on his back, couldn’t imagine how anyone would—and terror, because he was wholly outside the realm of his experience now, and Rodimus was going to _see his spike_.

“Don’t be shy,” Rodimus purred. “I want a look at what I’m going to ride.”

“It’s, um,” Magnus stammered. “It’s, um, a little embarrassing.” He couldn’t look Rodimus in the optics. Why couldn’t Rodimus have just sat on him and let him open his panel then?

An awkward silence descended. Then, slowly, Rodimus asked, “You, um, the armour does come with a spike, right?”

“Yes.” A rather generous one, in fact.

“And it is deep-wired so you can feel it, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Magnus vented in frustration. “One of the previous Duly Appointed Enforcers got carried away with the mods and it _looks ridiculous_.”

He dared to light his optics just a bit and saw Rodimus kneeling over him looking very, very intrigued.

_Dammit, Rodimus._

“I want you to _swear_ no word of this is going to get out to the crew, even— _especially_ —if they’re playing Truth or Drink at Swerve’s.”

“Okay,” Rodimus said.

Magnus glowered. “Swear.”

“Frag, fine, yeah, I swear on the Matrix, the Tyrest Accord and my Autobot badge I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone. _Now_ can I see?”

“Fine,” Magnus growled. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He opened his panel. 

Despite his trepidations, his spike had no qualms at all about extending. It was listening to the part of his mind that really, really liked Rodimus taking control of his body, and not the rest of his mind, which was doing its best to curl up and die of humiliation.

Minimus Ambus had a perfectly serviceable spike for a mech his size, green on top, grey underneath. The Magnus Armour followed a similar pattern—white on top, blue underneath—and of course it was proportioned to his size, which was to say, it was big. Ultra Magnus would have been all right with the red piping down the length and the bio-lights that flanked it. He could have tolerated the fact that the tip was also encircled with red trim and lighting. He could even have dealt with the way the lights pulsed in rhythmic patterns when his spike was handled, or, presumably, when someone was fragging it. But the texturing…it was completely gratuitous, a complex pattern of ridges and bumps, ribbing and stippling, all painted with red highlights as though to advertise his wares, and graced with a wholly unnecessary auxiliary prong right at the root. Ultra Magnus was utterly humiliated to possess such an unnatural and extreme spike that could not possibly meet any sane regulation for standard configuration of same.

Magnus watched Rodimus’ jaw drop. His captain moved his mouth, but no words came out. His hands, though, reached slowly for the spike as though it were the Matrix itself.

“Laughable, isn’t it?” Magnus huffed, before Rodimus could beat him to the description.

“Magnus,” Rodimus breathed, and the tenor of his voice sounded more like awe than mockery. “Magnus, do you know what all that’s for?”

Rodimus took the spike in his hands gently, almost reverently, and Magnus bit his lip to stop himself from making noise at the whisper-soft sensation of Rodimus’ touch.

“It’s for me,” Rodimus whispered.

That comment was enough to shock Ultra Magnus from his paralysis. “Really, Rodimus, that’s a whole new level of arrogance, given that whoever modified the armour probably didn’t know you _that_ well. Or, at least, I would _hope_ not.”

…Rodimus hadn’t been fragging any other Ultra Magnus, had he?

“…correct?” he found himself driven to ask.

“No, you don’t understand.” Rodimus ran his fingers gently down the length of the spike, right over the lights, which pulsed appreciatively. “Those mods are for your partner.” 

Magnus watched in confusion as Rodimus explored the spike. And he bit his lip, hard enough to sting, because those fingers tracing him that way…it felt…well, it felt _appealing_. Intellectually his mind was telling him _no, bad,_ but his body was mounting a convincing counterargument for _yes, good._

Rodimus pressed gently on one of the raised knurls. “These line up with the nodes inside a valve.” The speedster licked his lips and Ultra Magnus noticed a trace of lubricant in the corner of his mouth, which was evidently watering. Rodimus ran his fingertips over the ribbed surfaces. “These are for the mesh lining.” He stroked the prong, his hands trembling. “This is to stimulate the external node during interface.” His voice broke off in a burst of static. “Primus, Magnus, don’t you understand? _Your spike is going to feel so good inside me_.”

Well, that had been an embarrassing miscalculation. Magnus had been so certain the ornate spike was either a joke or some kind of horrible perversion. Ordinarily he’d be ashamed at an extrapolation that had ended up so far from the truth, except that in this case, Rodimus’ actual response was far more favourable than his simulations had allowed for.

He would accept this good fortune.

Rodimus leaned over and kissed him. That was acceptable. Kissing was good. He could do kissing.

It felt pleasant, too, and maybe if he concentrated on that, he could make it through this interface business.

The kiss ended. “Hey,” Rodimus said, looking down into Ultra Magnus’ optics. Magnus had honestly never seen him looking so serious before. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” 

Magnus sighed internally. Just when Rodimus had been doing so well at being commanding. 

Rodimus frowned when Magnus didn’t respond. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. This isn’t a job. I’m not going to make you.” Rodimus paused, thinking. “How did they say it at the Academy? Speak freely.”

This was an optional activity, and Rodimus was giving Ultra Magnus an opportunity to decline. A way to refuse the order without being insubordinate. Magnus had an escape, and that was a relief.

…But he didn’t want to use it.

Yes, he was a little nervous at the prospect of this kind of interface, and yes, he was maybe even _scared_ that having his spike covered in wet, sticky, messy fluids might be revolting and upsetting and something he couldn’t tolerate for long, but he was also kind of excited at the idea of finding out just what interfacing this way felt like. Maybe he’d finally understand why so many other mechs were so obsessed with it. Or, if he didn’t care for it, at least he’d _know_ that he’d given it a fair try.

“I’m sure,” Ultra Magnus said. He reached up and stroked Rodimus’ face.

It was as though Rodimus just couldn’t maintain a serious expression for very long. “Good. But, if you don’t like it, you know you can tell me to stop, right? Or…or even just slow down or wait. Okay?”

Ultra Magnus smiled. He couldn’t help it. Rodimus was very kind, and Magnus rather liked it.

A he feeling of warmth came from somewhere deep inside him, pouring up to his mouth and curving it before he knew what he was doing. It was a different kind of pleasure from the kind that he got from feeling the heat of Rodimus’ body grinding against his. He appreciated both varieties.

“Affirmative,” he said. “Now let’s begin.”


	6. Fully Deployed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not responsible if your home/building/town runs out of cold water.
> 
> I am not responsible if your significant other/parent/boss/instructor/friend etc thinks you have a weird thing for robots.
> 
> PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.
> 
> (2015: the year of Rodimus & Ultra Magnus doing the clang clang.)

Chapter 6: Fully Deployed

Rodimus kissed Ultra Magnus again, slower this time, dipping his tongue between Magnus’ lips. Magnus felt Rodimus shifting on top of him. The tip of Magnus’ spike touched something firm that was probably Rodimus’ thigh, then something shallow that was probably the joint of Rodimus’ leg and his crotch, then something moist and soft that was probably…probably…

Rodimus wriggled. Magnus swore he felt the wet softness move sideways, and then his spike was nudging somewhere significantly wetter. That…that had to be the opening. Magnus was supposed to push his spike in there.

Rodimus trembled. Magnus folded his arms around his commander’s back before he could think better of it—it was just so natural to him, the urge to protect and defend. Rodimus dimmed his optics and opened his mouth, but the curve in the corners of his lips indicated this was likely some sort of smile. “Oh,” Rodimus said.

_Oh_ was completely unhelpful. Ultra Magnus found the smile to be a much more effective indication that Rodimus approved of this behaviour and wished to continue.

Rodimus took hold of Magnus’ upper arms and pushed, lifting himself from all fours into a more vertical position. Magnus felt the moist heat slide over the head of his spike and gasped.

“Ready?” Rodimus whimpered. A shiver racked his body, even though his fans were roaring. Magnus marvelled at Rodimus’ display of a want so extreme it seemed to cause pain. He wasn’t entirely certain about this—he was pretty sure the moisture he felt down the side of his spike was Rodimus’ filthy little valve dripping everywhere and soiling both him and his berth—but he didn’t like seeing Rodimus this uncomfortable and he didn’t think his captain could maintain this position for long.

“Ready,” Ultra Magnus confirmed. No sooner was the word out of his mouth than he was chastising himself for sounding like he was in the midst of a docking procedure or some such. Even he’d encountered enough pornography—usually confiscated from mechs who didn’t know how to keep their private collections private—to know that the berth was a place for sexy talk.

Ultra Magnus hadn’t a clue how to do sexy talk, though, and Rodimus didn’t seem to be put off by protocol more appropriate to the ship’s bridge. Magnus set his concerns aside, certain his vocabulary, while not specialized, was good enough for the task at hand.

He was jolted by the sudden realization that he’d dismissed a partial effort as _good enough_ and promptly jolted again by the feeling of Rodimus’ valve gobbling up the head of his spike. At that, all questions of appropriate terminology and sufficient dedication departed his mind and left no forwarding address.

Rodimus’ valve felt wet, yes, but not the kind of gooey, slimy wetness that Ultra Magnus had been afraid of. He hadn’t expected the valve to be such a snug fit on his spike. He could feel warm inner cords gripping him, calipers squeezing and releasing, a pleasant sensation like a fitted sleeve around his spike. The moisture was just a grease that made his spike glide smoothly in and out of the valve when Rodimus worked his hips.

This was…actually all right. Ultra Magnus focused his optics for a better look. Two-thirds of his spike was still visible, but the end of it was firmly buried between Rodimus’ thighs. Rodimus’ gorgeous body was magnificently on display, impaled on his spike, and Ultra Magnus had to admit he rather liked the view. Rodimus’ knees lifted him in a strangely hypnotic motion, rising and falling, working the spike in his valve.

Rodimus looked down at him, grinned outrageously, and quipped, “Progress report?”

Ultra Magnus groaned. “I thought you…were supposed to be grading me…sir.”

“Nope, it’s a team effort! Initial findings?” Rodimus’ smile was shameless. How he could do that while bobbing up and down on a spike, Ultra Magnus would never know.

Ultra Magnus opened his lips, intending to say _satisfactory_ , but only a strangled moan slipped out.

Rodimus’ smile broadened.

“’s good,” Magnus managed to slur. His breath was coming faster and shallower than it ought to be. Speaking was difficult.

“Oh yeah,” Rodimus agreed. “Commander concurs and… _oh. Ngh…_ ”

Rodimus threw back his head, his optics flaring with light, and even Ultra Magnus was able to figure out what had happened. Something in Rodimus’ valve had stretched and swallowed up another segment of Magnus’ spike in a big gulp. Ultra Magnus could feel one of those ridiculous raised modifications rubbing against something that felt like a hard, firm little knot inside Rodimus’ valve, and it produced an exceedingly pleasant sensation that, from the look on Rodimus’ face, was entirely mutual.

Ultra Magnus pressed his head into the pillow behind him. He had not expected interface to feel so _intoxicating_. He avoided strong engex as a rule, and this…

This lack of control was frightening and yet also exceptionally enjoyable. Rodimus felt delightful, inside and out. The fact that Tyrest wouldn’t approve of this behaviour was just an added bonus. 

Ultra Magnus found himself hoping that _frag the captain_ would be added to his list of regular duties. 

Rodimus rose up on his knees. Slid down the spike. Rose again. Lowered himself. Ultra Magnus felt as though his spike were knocking on a door, nudging against Rodimus’ calipers, asking for admittance. And yet, repeatedly, admittance was denied.

This felt good. But Rodimus’ body would let him go no further.

“It won’t fit,” Ultra Magnus stammered. His lips felt numb. He was horrified. He’d been…this was _incredible_ , and his stupid spike had ruined it after all.

“It’ll fit,” Rodimus assured him in between gasps.

Magnus regarded him skeptically. Rodimus’ bravado and misplaced confidence were well known to him, and yet this time he really wanted to believe Rodimus was right.

“Trust me,” Rodimus purred, “I can take you.” Magnus did not want to think about where, how, or with who Rodimus developed an ability to talk and interface at the same time. Or the assurance that Magnus’ spike would fit. “I just…mrgh…just need a little time…” His words grew ragged as he focused his attention on pumping Magnus’ spike in a smooth, regular pattern. Magnus actually saw his spike head slip outside Rodimus’ valve before Rodimus took him in again in a longer stroke.

Ah. So Rodimus hadn’t perfected the skill. Magnus felt pleased.

“That okay?” Rodimus panted.

Magnus quite liked the feeling of his spike’s tip trailing up and down the inside of Rodimus’ valve. To be honest, he’d be perfectly content with a little bit more of this. But he very much appreciated that Rodimus was so courteous as to ask, and so he made sure to answer as clearly as he could, “Oh yes, Rodimus…proceed on your own time…I…” A burst of static overwhelmed his voxcoder. “Oh, this is nice.”

Nice. One of those _wishy washy words_ that Crosscut hated so much. Ultra Magnus had watched the former senator editing his plays, and Magnus had never quite grasped what got Crosscut into such a state about the word _nice_. Crosscut’s grammar and language structure were exemplary, and Magnus could rarely find fault with any of his writing. Crosscut, however, kept complaining that his language wasn’t poetic enough, that his imagery wasn’t striking enough, that his emotional characterizations didn’t pack a sufficiently visceral punch, and that there weren’t enough references to shovels in his work. Ultra Magnus had decided that he was no judge of art, and left Crosscut to his work.

Now, Ultra Magnus wished he’d taken the time to learn what word Crosscut had used instead of _nice_. Maybe he could’ve applied it to how very _good_ this felt, to have his spike working in and out of Rodimus’ valve in such a pleasantly regular rhythm. His spike and Rodimus’ valve moved together in perfect coordination, like a piston in a cylinder, or a hydraulic extending, collapsing, extending again. There was something infinitely pleasing about the way they fit together, and something deeply enjoyable in the regular repetition of that union.

Rodimus took Ultra Magnus’ spike, right up to that stopping point, and his valve squeezed, calipers rippling. Rodimus took his weight on his knees and the valve slid away, a smooth caress up Magnus’ spike. Magnus actually whimpered in anticipation of the snugness returning. Rodimus’ hips pumped downwards, and Magnus felt delightful friction against the head of his spike and all the way down to the stopping point…and beyond. It was as though Rodimus had skidded and slid. The valve tightened snugly around the middle of Magnus’ spike.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Rodimus sighed.

Maybe Rodimus _could_ take his whole spike. Magnus was more than happy to let him try. Even if he didn’t manage the entire thing, it looked as though this would be a most enjoyable experience for both of them.

“How do you feel?” Rodimus panted as he duplicated the maneuver.

Primus, Magnus swore he could feel Rodimus’ swollen sensory nodes grinding against his spike as it slid in and out. Magnus was happily familiarizing himself with the sensation when Rodimus stopped and peered at him, optics concerned, clearly expecting an answer.

“Good,” Magnus grunted. “Don’t…sir…” Speaking was challenging, but begging was simply too inappropriate. Magnus steeled himself and released the words in a rush. “Sir…please don’t stop on my account.”

Rodimus grinned. “You’re fragging amazing.” He resumed his motion, pumping Ultra Magnus’s spike in and out of his valve, with a decadent sigh. His optics dimmed in pleasure. The delightful sensations resumed their spread throughout Ultra Magnus’ processor.

Magnus watched Rodimus enjoying himself. It was a beautiful sight. Rodimus certainly did know what to do with Magnus’ fabulous spike to get himself off. 

Ultra Magnus felt a sudden irrational surge of jealousy rise up and take him by the throat. He imagined Rodimus, alone in his quarters, bouncing like that on some kind of…of sex toy. Was Magnus’ pleasure in this just some sort of…of by-product? 

Oh, no, he was _not_ going to permit this encounter to be simply a matter of _captain uses his second-in-command’s spike to self-service; second-in-command also enjoys._ Right now he was lying here uselessly while Rodimus had his way with him. He didn’t want to be a sex toy. He wanted to be _part_ of Rodimus’ pleasure; to do something that no toy could do. And he wanted some reward of his own choosing. Surely he was entitled to that?

His hands rose up to Rodimus’ hips, but stopped just an inch short. He was only entitled to it if Rodimus agreed.

“Rodimus?” he asked, seeking consent, hoping Rodimus wouldn’t ask him to explain, because he wasn’t entirely certain what he wanted to do, only that it seemed important for him to wrap his hands around those angular hips.

Strangely, Rodimus nodded very eagerly. “Yeah,” he encouraged. “Grab me, move me…”

Magnus took hold. He guided Rodimus to tilt his hips, changing the angle of penetration so it hit the top of his spike more firmly. It was a little awkward at first. Rodimus’ hips surged as though they had a will of their own, and Magnus hesitated to use force.

“Don’t be afraid to grab tight,” Rodimus panted. “Get a good grip, put me right where you want me…”

_Where Magnus wanted him_ was firmly impaled on his spike, so he gave it a try, hooking in his fingers and driving Rodimus firmly downward. Rodimus gasped.

Magnus let go, afraid he’d hurt him.

“Oh Primus, that is so hot, oh Primus, keep doing that.”

Apparently not. And it had felt very good.

Ultra Magnus took Rodimus firmly in hand and slammed him down on his spike.

“Yes!” Rodimus exclaimed. “Harder, Magnus!”

Ultra Magnus lifted Rodimus off his spike and moved his own hips, tugging Rodimus down just as he thrust upwards to meet him. Rodimus threw back his head and howled. Ultra Magnus was rewarded by a rush of pleasure followed by Rodimus finally managing semi-coherent words: “yes-yes-yes.”

_I can do this_ , Ultra Magnus realized, and he did it again, because it felt…it felt amazing. He wanted to explore these sensations, to savour them, to understand them thoroughly. He wanted to memorize how it felt to thrust his spike into Rodimus’ welcoming valve, and he wanted to preserve the knowledge of how it felt when that valve clamped down on him. He wanted to rub his mods over Rodimus’ internal nodes and find out all the different noises he could coax from his commander’s voxcoder. He wanted to develop a protocol to maximize this experience.

Actually, he’d probably need an entire manual. Chapter One: Procedure for Acquisition of Revved-up, Consenting Commanding Officer. Mrgh, and he’d have to develop a list of appropriate places to _put_ revved-up, consenting commanding officer, or he’d be in serious broach of protocol. Subsection A: wash station; subsection B: hab suite…

_Subsection C: second-in-command’s office, paragraph 1, second-in-command’s desk, subparagraphs I through V, various positions…_

Apparently all that confiscated pornography had taught him something after all.

And none of it compared to the reality in his hands.


	7. Rogue Command

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a rough week for a lot of people emotionally, for a number of reasons, and if Rodimus and Magnus doing the clang clang can cheer my friends up, then here it is. 
> 
> Have a Happy early Valentine's too.

Chapter Seven: Rogue Command 

Ultra Magnus did not, as a rule, approve of gratuitous interfacing, but it wasn’t as though he’d never seen it done. He’d confiscated his fair share of pornography from mechanisms who didn’t understand that such films should be enjoyed in the privacy of one’s own hab suite while off duty, and not, say, on one’s datapad while pretending to be working. They absolutely should not be broadcast across the ship’s monitors, whether or _not_ the communications officer was aware of the broadcast. _That_ little prank had netted Magnus almost half his current collection.

As a result, Ultra Magnus had in his possession a substantially large library of such material. Surely it was reasonable to educate oneself about what, exactly, one had confiscated? He could never watch the films for long—he always felt dirty and ashamed and humiliated at his own weakness after the first few seconds—but bit by bit he’d managed to get the general idea of what happened during interface. 

In his defense, he often saw much worse behaviour on the _Lost_ _Light_ ’s security monitors. Red Alert had placed an alarming number of cameras on board, including many in areas that would ordinarily be considered private, but Chief Justice Tyrest had always considered privacy to be a worthwhile sacrifice in the name of catching criminals doing things they ought not to be doing in the first place. 

So, Ultra Magnus had seen clips from a number of films and also several instances of security footage in which one mech straddled his partner and rode his spike. He had even seen his own captain involved in this activity. Ultra Magnus had scrutinized those surveillance recordings very carefully indeed—no need for guilt or shame when a security officer was observing events on the ship he was securing, right? He knew, for example, that Rodimus’ lower lip quivered when he was on the verge of climax.

Ultra Magnus could see that telltale quiver now, and this was no movie.

Some part of Ultra Magnus’ mind still didn’t seem to grasp that, right now, he—the former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord—was in the process of fragging his commanding officer. It was easier to pretend that this was a film playing on his internal monitor, and the sensations on his spike were just his own hand and the wet solvent of his personal wash station.

Except that he was lying on his back on his berth and Rodimus’ fans were roaring hot air down onto his frame and using his own hand had never, ever felt this good.

Rodimus’ valve was syrupy and warm, tight despite how often the commander used it, and filled with—Magnus didn’t even know what. Something that stimulated the sensors in Ultra Magnus’ spike in ways that Magnus didn’t yet understand but absolutely intended to study thoroughly in the very near future. He’d heard talk in Swerve’s bar about internal calipers and sensory node clusters and mods that could make interface more intense, but he couldn’t apply any of those rumours to the sensations currently setting his neural net aflame with any hope of accuracy. 

Nor, right now, did he care.

What he cared about, in addition to cataloguing the sensations, was _doing his job_. _Somebody_ on this ship had to have standards. Usually it fell to Ultra Magnus to set the example. In practice, right now, that meant giving Rodimus the best frag of his life. 

Which was a lot to live up to, but Minimus Ambus hadn’t gotten to be Ultra Magnus without learning how to survive, even thrive, under pressure that would crush most mechanisms. He’d gotten this far by knuckling down and getting the job done. Granted, he didn’t entirely know what he was doing, and he’d been faking his way through far more of this encounter than he was strictly comfortable with, but that quivering lip indicated that he had to be doing _something_ right.

He was just sorry it was going to be over so soon. He quite liked that rhythmic milking sensation on his spike, and the way Rodimus’ valve slid over his spike like a snug little sheath. Rodimus didn’t even seem to care that the Magnus Armour’s spike was too big to fit all the way inside his frame. Or that Magnus was none too gentle as he thrust up into his commander, all the while slamming Rodimus’ hips downward with his hands.

“Magnus,” Rodimus panted. His hands clutched blindly at Magnus’ chestplate. “Magnus, I’m gonna…gonna…”

Ultra Magnus loosened his grip on Rodimus’ hips. He’d discovered that instead of being reprimanded for overstepping his boundaries, Rodimus had actually liked it when Magnus had taken charge. Magnus had been granted freedom to put Rodimus right where he wanted him and Rodimus had loved being along for the ride, if his repeated cries of _yes_ had been any indication. Now, though, Magnus wasn’t quite sure what to do, and he wanted Rodimus—the expert—to resume control.

Magnus let go, and suddenly found Rodimus’ hands grasping his own. Rodimus’ hips pistoned furiously and then the commander arched his back, executing a slow, hard thrust. His grip on Magnus’ fingers became almost painful.

Rodimus’ optics flared with white light. Magnus’ first thought was _seizure_. It was followed by a second thought, a reprimand: _no, stupid, you’ve been through this already. That’s overload._

Third thought: _Dear Primus. Overload._

Rodimus cried out, a strangled shout that the whole ship probably heard. Magnus braced himself for the sound of a knock on the door.

Time seemed to stretch out. Rodimus’ whole body quivered with ecstasy, impaled on Magnus’ spike. Rodimus’ valve contracted, clutching as tight as his hands. Ultra Magnus held still, uncertain of the recommended follow-up. He could only watch as Rodimus’ whole body trembled, caught up in the culmination of pleasure, and it occurred to him that perhaps he didn’t actually need to do anything more.

Then Rodimus slumped. His elbows slammed into the berth on either side of Magnus’ torso, but Ultra Magnus still felt Rodimus’ chest slam into his. Rodimus gasped, venting heavily. The tight pressure on Magnus’ spike relaxed into a soft, tender envelope around his spike.

Ultra Magnus could no longer quash the urge to act. He disentangled his left hand from Rodimus’ hold and wrapped an arm around his commander’s shoulders. His right hand tightened on Rodimus’ fingers. “All right?” he asked softly.

Rodimus made an inarticulate groaning noise, stopped, breathed in, and tried again. This time he succeeded in forming words. “Yeah…just…just gimme a minute and I’ll be ready to go again. Promise.”

“Again?” Magnus felt his mouth go dry.

Rodimus sat up a little. Magnus just about bit his tongue, because the movement made his spike slide around in Rodimus’ valve in a way that was very very interesting and why was Rodimus not doing that pumping thing he’d done before right now? Magnus’ worries—he’d just thought he’d successfully accomplished the task, only to be thrown for a loop to find that the job was not complete after all—vanished in a flicker of his spark. The feel of his spike in Rodimus’ valve changed his mind. Ultra Magnus was nowhere near ready to be done.

“Don’t you want to?” Rodimus asked gently. His expression seemed closer to sadness than the smartass mockery Magnus expected. He cupped Magnus’ cheek tenderly with his free hand.

Magnus could not bear to lose this. “Yes,” he said. His voice came out hoarse. He leaned his face into the touch, not knowing how to do this or even what _this_ was, but intuiting that contact with Rodimus was essential. “Yes, I want to.”

“Good.” Rodimus dimmed his optics, and his whole body relaxed.

Magnus gasped.

Rodimus had exhaled, and in so doing, his entire frame lost its tension. Including his valve. His valve expanded just a little, but between the relaxation and all the lubricant produced by their previous activity, it was enough for Rodimus’ valve to finally swallow the full length of Magnus’ spike. Rodimus’ thighs fit flush with Magnus’ now, and Magnus’ spike was fully seated inside his commanding officer.

Ultra Magnus recognized that he was staring, but he could not force himself to look away. From this viewpoint he could actually see how their bodies joined. He marvelled at the sight of Rodimus’ gently swollen valve rim fitted like a seal around his spike. He gawked at that ridiculous mod at the base of his spike, that prong or whatever it was, jutting up to press against Rodimus’ body.

What was that thing even supposed to be? Rodimus had commented on it, but Magnus couldn’t remember what he’d said. Magnus hadn’t even thought about that modification in more years than he could recall. He remembered his initial…ah, _explorations_ …of the Magnus Armour. Those had determined that the prong thing didn’t produce any kind of pleasurable sensation when manipulated, and he’d quickly lost interest in it.

…though it had to have some utility, or the previous Magnus wouldn’t have installed it, or kept it so long. What was it for? He supposed he could ask the medics, but on second thought, he’d rather die than admit curiosity about such things.

Rodimus moved his hips, differently this time. Left to right. Magnus felt the pressure of Rodimus’ valve walls against one side of his spike, then the other. Rodimus gasped, leaning forward. His hands slid to Magnus’ shoulder stacks for support.

Ultra Magnus liked having his stacks touched, and his spike took up a lot of his available processing power when Rodimus duplicated the move. It was only on the third repetition that Magnus was able to look down and understand what he saw.

Rodimus’ forward angle and sideways motion meant that the mysterious prong was rubbing back and forth across Rodimus’ exterior sensory node. 

Ultra Magnus looked up. Rodimus’ expression clearly showed that he was lost in a haze of pleasure: optics dim, mouth open, face rapturous. A trickle of drool came from the side of his mouth, not that he was in any state to notice. He panted gently, savouring the sensations.

And it wasn’t entirely selfish. Magnus noticed with a start that Rodimus’ valve was rippling inside in a very interesting way. Rippling all along his spike. Moments later, Magnus heard his own little gasps and moans blending with Rodimus’ in a bizarre symphony of pleasure.

Perverse? Maybe.

But _good._

So good.

Ultra Magnus felt that maybe he ought to communicate to Rodimus that he liked that rippling business. There was, unfortunately, no standardized form to convey his appreciation; there wasn’t even a handbook of recommended phrases. Ultra Magnus made a promise to correct that just after….just after…

_Oh._

Magnus had done enough private tension release in his wash station to know what the edge of overload felt like for him, and this was probably it, though with some unusual variations. He hadn’t even noticed the building pleasure, which seemed to have snuck up on him. Typically overload was an ordeal, a pinnacle just barely within reach, and he had to work his spike unmercifully for a chance to reach it. Oftentimes he found himself on the verge of pain, the friction uncomfortable, the sensation as unpleasant as it was rewarding, legs splayed and aching, hand throbbing, neck tense… It felt like an arduous climb to reach a precipice that he knew all too well was not a good place for a mech like him to be.

 _This_ , on the other hand, felt as though he’d taken an express elevator to that mountaintop. The voice reminding him that being a slave to his frame’s desires was a personal shortcoming, a moral failure…well, it seemed to be coming from somewhere far below him, until it disappeared entirely beneath Rodimus’ mewling cries. His hips thrust of their own accord, lifting Rodimus’ body, and the captain rode him as though he’d been custom built for the job.

It was going to be too late if Magnus didn’t act now. Trapped between fear of doing the wrong thing and fear of failure by doing _nothing_ , Ultra Magnus acted, making it up as he went. “Rodimus,” he gasped, “that’s…”

_Don’t say “nice.”_

“…so good,” Magnus gasped. Not very creative, but surely better than _nice_.

Rodimus grinned. Then gasped.

Magnus pushed his offensive, just like he’d been taught by Tyrest. “I like it.”

Magnus felt impossibly daring, making a declaration like that.

_I fragged my commanding officer._

_And I liked it._

That thought pushed Ultra Magnus over the precipice into the hardest overload of his life.


	8. Dress Standards, Subsection B:  Presenting for Duty

Chapter Eight: Dress Standards, Subsection B: Presenting for Duty

Ultra Magnus, as a rule, did not like losing control.

It was why he didn’t drink intoxicants. It was why he didn’t laugh himself silly, or dance himself into a frenzy, or indulge in reckless, poorly-considered behaviour. It was crucially important that the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord remain perfectly in control at all times, in order to command the respect of those around him and set an example for all other Autobots.

Right now, he was completely _out_ of control. Rodimus, his captain, was riding Magnus’ spike with great enthusiasm, and Magnus was a perfectly willing partner in this shameful behaviour. Worse, Magnus had grasped Rodimus’ hips, the better to slam his spike into his captain’s hungry valve. _Aiding and abetting. Accessory to the crime._

No. _Co-conspirator_ and _willing participant._

Ultra Magnus’ body seemed to be acting of its own volition. Magnus found himself craving more time in that tight, wet valve with a desire that was alien to his experience and frightening in its intensity. His brain flashed with warnings: caution, fear, _panic_.

His body not only ignored the warnings, but also retaliated with responses of its own: pleasure, good, _more_.

Ultra Magnus wasn’t sure if he was unable to stop, or if he simply couldn’t summon the _will_ to stop. He had no idea which would be worse.

And right now, he didn’t care.

Overload had broadsided him. One minute he’d been pistoning his spike in and out of Rodimus’ snug, slick valve in a brusque but intensely pleasing rhythm and contemplating the realization that he, Ultra Magnus, was thoroughly enjoying fragging the living daylights out of his commander. The next, he’d felt the telltale tremor of an incipient overload ripping through his systems like a hail of shrapnel. It was like a detonation in reverse: first the prickling sensation, then the explosion.

He tried to warn Rodimus, but only a strangled cry escaped his lips before climax overtook him. His ridiculously ornate spike delivered a hot jet of transfluid deep into Rodimus’ hungry valve.

_Filthy. Dirty._

What if Tyrest saw this?

Ultra Magnus had thought he was out of control. He’d never imagined what might happen next.

The very thought of Tyrest watching this gross, profligate violation of protocol and basic Autobot decency increased the pleasure and intensity a thousandfold.

Magnus took a firm grasp on Rodimus’ hips and pulled down at the same time his own pelvis thrust up. His body met Rodimus’ in a clang of metal, stabbing his spike deeply into Rodimus’ valve, slamming the tip of his spike into the top of Rodimus’ channel. It occurred to Magnus, too late, that this might hurt, but then he caught the echoing reverberation of Rodimus’ cry ringing in his audios: a loud and joyous _yes_.

Magnus’ spike surged again, ready for another round.

Dirty. Filthy. He should be pulling out of Rodimus’ sodden, disgusting little valve. Instead he thrust back in, enthusiastically, his spike spurting streamers of transfluid again. And again. And _again_ , and with every thrust Rodimus screamed out another word: till…all..are..

_Really?_ Ultra Magnus thought.

Then another surge of pleasure hit his systems, enough that he didn’t mind when Rodimus howled out the word “one,” enough that Magnus didn’t care how his spike was sliding through a degenerate mixture of Rodimus’ lubricant and his own spent transfluid. Magnus thrust again, flooded Rodimus’ channel with one last burst of liquid, and finally, _finally_ felt his overload ebb.

Rodimus collapsed on top of him, gasping, his fans painfully shrill as they struggled to cool his red-hot frame. Magnus’ own fans ached, but his concern now was wholly for Rodimus. “Did I hurt you?” Magnus asked urgently.

Rodimus shook his head no. He lifted his head and looked at Ultra Magnus. Rodimus’ optics were wide. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He shook his head no again, and clung to Magnus tightly.

Ultra Magnus wrapped an arm protectively around his commanding officer’s back.

“You’re amazing.” Rodimus nuzzled up close, his engine purring in a slow, contented rhythm. It really was quite pleasant to listen to, and Ultra Magnus rather enjoyed the way he could feel those soft vibrations thrumming against, and through, the Magnus Armour, all the way down to his true frame inside. 

He wondered if Rodimus had given any thought to the fact that the Magnus Armour, with its fabulous spike, was merely an empty shell with a smaller bot inside.

Ultra Magnus felt his fuel tank sour at the idea. Rodimus probably hadn’t—and why would he? Minimus Ambus was a nobody, a disgraced member of the Primal Vanguard who fell into unemployment and disrepute. Rodimus wouldn’t want…

_He_ didn’t want. Didn’t want anything to do with that person he used to be. Who would?

He shoved the thought away before he lapsed into a sucking pit of self-hatred, reminding himself that he was Ultra Magnus now, Second-in-Command of the _Lost Light_ and the mech who’d just fragged the _Lost Light_ ’scommander halfway into stasis.

He should feel badly about that. Instead he felt inordinately pleased with himself.

They lay there, bodies pressed together, drinking in fresh air and letting their bodies cool. Ultra Magnus tried not to think about how his spike was still trapped in Rodimus’ valve, and how sticky it was in there. He thought, instead, about how interface was fun—then he pushed that notion away. _Fun_ was still too new a concept for him to feel entirely comfortable thinking about it at a time like this. He needed time to process this experience and come to terms with it. 

Perhaps his brain could parse it in detail while he slept. He felt pleasantly tired. It was the kind of soft ache that usually came at the completion of a hard job done and done well. Recharging would be highly agreeable at this time.

But he would have to clean his berth.

Ultra Magnus looked at Rodimus and was alarmed to see his captain’s optics dim, and his captain’s breathing slow and regular. Had…Yes. The _audacity_. Rodimus had _fallen asleep_ , in Ultra Magnus’ berth, on top of Ultra Magnus himself…and with Ultra Magnus’ spike still tucked inside his valve.

What in the Inferno was Ultra Magnus supposed to do now?

He lay on his back, perfectly still, and tried to clear his mind. He tried not to think about fragging his commander, or the mess they’d made of the tarps that covered his berth, or about Rodimus’ valve leaking lubricant and spent transfluid down Ultra Magnus’ spike, down Magnus’ thighs, into the berth…

Ultra Magnus shivered. _Filth._

_Don’t think about it._

_Failure._

_Don’t move. Don’t wake up Rodimus. And don’t think about it._

_You dirty little loser._

He couldn’t take this any more. “Wake up,” he whispered urgently in Rodimus’ audio. “Wake up. We have to clean up.”

Rodimus’ optics flickered.

“Rodimus. It’s dirty. We have to…have to…it’s dirty.”

Rodimus’ mouth pulled into a sleepy smile. Magnus expected him to look smug or some such, but the expression on his face bore much more similarity to that of a dazed sort of wonder. Rodimus lay his head back down on Magnus’ chest and dimmed his optics.

Ultra Magnus didn’t know how to deal with _sweetness_. Such a display of emotion was not appropriate from commander to subordinate. It was likely appropriate between lovers, though, and that left Magnus feeling awkward, uncertain how to return the sentiment in a satisfactory way. He thought perhaps patting Rodimus’ shoulder might be a sound response.

Then Rodimus spoke five more words, in a voice heavily staticked with sleep. “Minimus Ambus,” he murmured, nestling close. “My Ultra Magnus.”

Magnus’ arm froze in mid-air. Rodimus smiled, and his whole frame relaxed as his optics dimmed.

Magnus—Minimus—lay still, thunderstruck. Minimus couldn’t move, could barely dare to breathe as he folded his arm around Rodimus’ shoulders again. Rodimus smiled, engine purring, and mumbled six indistinct words that sounded much like “I’m sorry I stole your spaceship…”

Minimus began counting ventilations, waiting for something terrible to happen. Either Rodimus was going to object to being held this way, or he’d wake up and take his words back, or…or…or Minimus hadn’t heard correctly. But as his count entered double digits, then triple, Minimus Ambus realized that Rodimus was, in fact, sound asleep.

He really ought to do something about this mess. Really…ought to. But he didn’t want to wake Rodimus. It would be easier for him to just dim his own optics and wait for the captain to move. Surely it wouldn’t take long. Rodimus was always so impatient.

That pleasantly tired feeling washed over his body. He felt as though he were floating in a warm cocoon, just him and Rodimus. 

The next thing he knew was the sound of his personal alarm going off. It was morning, the start of a brand new day.

  
#

Ultra Magnus woke up feeling strange. Was it dragginess, or was he just unusually content to lie in the comfortable warmth of his berth? Ordinarily, he was sitting upright and in the process of turning off his personal alarm before it completed its second beep. This time, though, it took two or three beeps just to wake him up, and two or three more before he could summon the volition to do anything about them.

Then he discovered that sitting up was significantly harder with a warm body draped across his chest.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Rodimus.

Sound asleep, splayed all over, lying there like it was his berth and not Magnus’.

… _Was_ he in Rodimus’ berth? Because he had an exceedingly vivid recollection of…

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

“Mrgh…whaaatzat?” Rodimus slurred. He slapped at his own chest and forearms, looking for a deactivation command that wasn’t there, because the alarm wasn’t his own. Whimpering, he curled against the warm body beside him. “Turnit offff.”

Ultra Magnus obeyed. Instantly. And continued to lie there under his commanding officer, ramrod stiff, realizing that those recollections in his mind were not dreams or even the kind of fantasies he indulged in while alone in his private wash station.

_This_ would be the infamous _morning after feeling_ that Ultra Magnus had heard about so many times in Swerve’s bar. 

Oh dear. Ultra Magnus didn’t like this feeling very much at all. 

He felt equal parts ashamed and proud, equal parts guilty and smug, equal parts disgusted and pleased. He felt…extremely confused. 

Ultra Magnus had no resources to address the chaotic jumble of emotions in his mind, but he did know how to deal with _confusion_. Confusion was best addressed by strict adherence to protocol. Protocol would guide his actions until his mind parsed the source of confusion and the emotion passed.

And protocol dictated that he get up once his reveille sounded.

“It’s time to get up,” Magnus announced.

Rodimus nuzzled against his shoulder.

Ultra Magnus froze. The nuzzle was not unwelcome—in fact it was rather pleasant—but it was counterproductive to getting out of the bunk.

“Rodimus. We need to get up,” he said.

Rodimus’ optics flickered with light. “Magnus?” he asked. “Why’re you in my berth?” A big lazy grin spread across his lips as he thought of a potential reason why.

Magnus felt his faceplates heat. “We’re not in your berth,” he corrected. 

As if that fact undid _any_ of what they’d gotten up to last night.

Rodimus lifted his head and looked around. “Wow, it is _creepy_ how tidy this hab suite is.” 

“No, it’s, ahem, _creepy_ how _disgusting_ this berth is.” Magnus hoped his shame didn’t show on his face as he closed his spike panel. Sometime during the course of the night, his body had disconnected from Rodimus’, his spike slipping free of his commander’s valve, but that was the only mercy he’d been granted. Their thighs, and the berth itself, were still covered with Magnus’ transfluid and Rodimus’ lubricant, now mostly dried, and the blankets were snarled in a terrible mess. They were stained anyway. Magnus just wanted….wanted…

Wanted a clean body and a neatly made berth and some order in his mind so he could _think_. 

“We need to wash,” Magnus said insistently. “Captain.”

Rodimus lay his head back down on Magnus’ shoulder instead. “Don’t wanna. Too soon.”

Ultra Magnus tried to convince himself that _too soon_ was an order, and he almost succeeded until he made the mistake of paying attention to the list of alert signals coming from the Magnus armour. Alert: spike cover retracted. Alert: grime on inner thighs. Alert: stickiness in vicinity of abdomen…no, _all over_ abdomen. Alert…

Magnus couldn’t deal with it. He sat up, dumping Rodimus into his lap with an aggrieved squeal.

“Hey! Don’t you….”

Ultra Magnus pulled Rodimus into his arms, got to his feet, and slung his commanding officer over his shoulder.

“This can’t be protocol,” Rodimus gasped, kicking and squirming.

Ultra Magnus halted one step away from the washrack door. “Nothing about last night was protocol, Captain.”

“Um,” Rodimus said from behind Magnus’ head. “Your door is the other way.” Magnus guessed Rodimus must be staring at it; Magnus was facing a different door entirely.

“The wash station is _this_ way, Rodimus.”

“We’re…” 

“I’m not letting you out in public looking like that.”

“Yeah, you know what happened the last time you said that.”

Rodimus had a point. Ultra Magnus considered it for a moment; then he flipped on his comm switch and selected the channel for the bridge. “Ultra Magnus to Hound. Report.”

“Nothing to…er.” Hound cleared his voxcoder. “No significant occurrences took place during the duration of my shift.”

Ultra Magnus felt pleased. Hound was a fine addition to the _Lost Light_ ’s command staff. “Excellent,” Ultra Magnus said. 

Rodimus struggled. Magnus held him tighter and continued speaking to Hound. “Hound, I have a matter here requiring my urgent attention.”

Rodimus stopped struggling and lay very still. Ultra Magnus patted the captain’s thigh as he asked, “Are you capable of handling the bridge for a second shift?”

“Uh…affirmative!”

Hound sounded surprised that Ultra Magnus would entrust him with the responsibility. And truthfully, some part of Magnus still felt that he ought to be doing it himself. But Rung had cautioned him about micromanaging. And Hound was more than capable of watching the bridge at a time like this. 

“Message me in case of emergency. Otherwise, you have control.”

“Er…what about Rodimus, sir?”

Ultra Magnus startled. Hound couldn’t possibly… Of course not. “The Captain is busy assisting me,” Magnus explained smoothly, “and I’m afraid I have my hands full.”

Rodimus choked laughter. Magnus scowled. Had Hound heard that noise?

If he had, he gave no sign. “Understood, sir. Hound out.” The communication ended.

“I cannot believe,” Rodimus spluttered, “that _you_ of all people are taking a day off to…”

Ultra Magnus cut him off before he could say something explicit that would make the former Duly Appointed Enforcer reconsider. “Affirmative,” Ultra Magnus replied, “because I _clearly_ remember what happened last time I said you needed assistance cleaning up.” And he palmed open the door of the wash station, in the hope that it might happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read and comment. This series will be CONTINUING! The next installments, "Fitness for Duty" and "Defaulters," are already outlined :) So...stay tuned!


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